Don’t have a cow man.. oh wait..

Friday Evening:

After our tour, we walked some more on that hot concrete animal known as Hollywood Boulevard, where even the aforementioned kebabs seemed hot and stinky.

Our  huffy Hollywood guide in addition to our friend Joseph Amster, an actual tour guide who operates with heart and soul in the Bay Area, recommended a must see Hollywood restaurant called “Musso and Franks” , an establishment frequented by Quentin Tarantino himself, whose gory  film scenes must be inspired by those world famous, deliciously rare  bloody steaks.

The three block walk felt like three miles, as we proudly dripped perspiration onto the Walk of Fame star of none other than Trump himself. 

Hucksters tried to sell us MAGA shirts and hats. If I weren’t so hot and sweaty and just plain hangry,I would have lunged at them. 

Which, come to think of it, is exactly why jungle animals DO lunge.

We had only eaten crappy airline food about what seemed like twenty four hours earlier when we reached our destination.. and two locked entrances. I was about to buy one of those aforementioned red hats and throw a hissy fit that could’ve  been heard as far away as Bel Air when Jim found a security guard who let us in.

The place was dark and exotic and had a smell of flaming meat that turned me into a tiger.

The Maitre D asks us if we wanted to be seated, which he said he could do if we didn’t mind waiting …for three hours.

We minded.

He promised it was worth the wait because the world renowned steaks were cooked over a hot grill that was over a hundred years old.

“That description fits ME,” I say, and I told him we’d be willing to sit in swivel chairs at the counter as long as there was A/C.

He seats us right in front of the flaming brick oven and I hissed at him. 

Teeth were bared.

He then reseats us, at the far end of the counter, where we had to walk through a narrow passageway.

At this point, I would have been okay being seated in a meat locker, but we were fine with the swivel seats, until we realized they didn’t swivel very far, meaning if you wear above a size six, you weren’t getting swiveled.

If a woman craved a steak in her ninth month of pregnancy, which many women do, she would have been directed towards the street and its toxic lamb kebabs.

Jim could barely squeeze by and he’s normal sized.

He’s normal sized and he loves me like one of those mothers you hear about that take on unheard of stamina to lift automobiles off of toddlers.

Jim was not accepting that these swivel chairs were packed like sardines on Ozempic, so what’s he do??

He proceeds to lift the chair off of its base and he succeeded, until the sweaty Maitre D runs over to him and acts like he’s auditioning for the role of  The Sociopath in the next Tarantino movie.

“Sir!” He screams “what do you think you’re doing??!! Were you born in a barn?”

“ I’m trying to get us fed!” He screams, and I pipe in with, “yeah, don’t have a COW man!

Because if there’s an opportunity for a pop culture reference, I’m taking it.

The man returns the swivel chair to the base, with the assistance from Jim’s phone for light, and I’m finally seated,

Jim was like a Hollywood Boulevard Superman minus the BO, and our server must have noticed, because he was very friendly and accommodating.

And yeah.. it was worth it, even with the wait and the weight bias.

You could actually taste the  dirt on the flame broiled steak with the green peppercorn sauce, and it was delicious. 

It was enough meat to serve a large  den of tigers, the julienne fries could have fed an army, and the creamed spinach would give an entire village the strength of Popeye the Sailor Man.

And don’t even get me started on dessert!! 

Yummy yummy French vanilla ice cream with carmelized bananas and a crunchy peanut brittle topping.

It was a little bowl of heaven served in a swivel chair that was designed for someone like Gumby but again, so worth it!

For those of you insane enough to stay with me, I will move onto the next blog.